


Playing With Lightning

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:57:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabe is trying to take things slow. Sex pollen is not helping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing With Lightning

Gabe likes Las Vegas. It understands him. Layers of flash and distraction, show upon show, fighting like hell to keep the desert at bay; Gabe and Las Vegas both know how to front.

Tonight he's fronting like he's at Rain to drink and dance, flirt and get his picture taken, and the fact that Pete's the DJ is just a nice coincidence. Miles from his mind. The truth is that Pete is why he's here, he's tired of dancing, half of his drinks are club soda, and the flashes of cameras and iPhones are giving him a massive headache. 

He might be too old for this.

But Pete's spinning tonight, and Gabe missed him. He's tired of being on the wrong side of the country. Flying in for Pete's set and a night at the club is plausible; so is going back to LA with Pete to hang and write. Nobody will notice his ulterior motives except Pete, and Pete is the one who shares them.

Pete glances up from his laptop, eyes tracking across the crowd until he finds Gabe. He smiles, a quick flash of teeth in the lights, and lifts his drink in a slight salute. Gabe returns the gesture and takes a sip. He's trying not to get ahead of himself. Trying not to think ahead to hotel room, hotel _bed_ , kisses and light careful touches, their mouths on skin, his tongue tracing Pete's ink and Pete's teeth leaving marks Gabe can press on for days. He's absolutely not thinking about any of that. Poker face, Saporta.

Pete frowns at the cup in his hand and turns to signal one of the club staff. Gabe watches her cut through the crowd to him, holding a tray up above her head with a new drink ready to go. Pete will be working a hell of a buzz by the time they go upstairs. He'll be loose and laughing, tactile and easy. He'll want Gabe to kiss him and touch him all over, and he'll trust Gabe to put on the brakes. Which Gabe will do, because he's being fucking careful with this. It's too precious and too fragile to risk screwing up. He wants this to _work_ , and that means taking it slow.

Taking it slow might drive him out of his mind, but if it doesn't, it'll be worth it. Worth every minute.

He watches Pete take a drink and give the waitress a thumbs-up. He watches Pete turn back to his equipment, then continue the turn to the opposite side of the DJ stand, where a little cluster of people have gathered to shout up at him. That's weird; club security should've kept them back. Assholes with money, probably. The people the rules are made to be broken by.

Gabe doesn't see whose hand it is. Just that one hand rises up from the group and tosses a powder into the air, expertly aimed so the A/C vents blow it into Pete's face. He sees Pete step back, startled, his own hands coming up to rub at his eyes and his nose. That's all Gabe has time to see before he's out of his chair and starting to cross the dancefloor.

"Whoa," Pete says into the mic, laughing a little. Gabe checks his stride, hesitating; that doesn't sound as bad as he'd thought. "You guys are getting a little rowdy with the glitter tonight."

Glitter. Just glitter. That's okay. Gabe turns to go back to his seat, then stumbles as a giggling pack of girls catch at his sleeves and tug him farther onto the floor. Pete kicks up a song with heavy bass and Gabe closes his eyes, trying to get lost in the beat. He knows how to do this. 

**

By the end of Pete's set, Gabe can tell that something's a little off.

Pete hasn't screwed up or said anything he shouldn't, but he's rubbing at his eyes a lot, his banter has died off into a series of vague, stuttering introductions, and there's a tension to his shoulders that reminds Gabe of how he looks when he's fighting a panic attack.

Pete ends the set with, "Thanks, Vegas. I got a lot of love for you." He sounds distracted, though, like in his head he's already on his way back to LA. That wouldn't make Gabe worry, wouldn't even throw him off, except Pete isn't looking at the crowd. He's not looking at the pretty young things posing by the booth to get his attention, he's not looking for the waitress for a last refill, and he's not looking for Gabe.

Maybe it's all ego to think so, but it's that last thing that's setting off alarm bells in Gabe's head. He flew out here for Pete, Pete was clinging to him before the set and looking around for him for the first hour, but Pete's not looking at all now. He's closing up his laptop with exaggerated care, his shoulders hunched like he's trying to make himself smaller, and heading for the door back to the dressing rooms without looking back.

Gabe frowns and cuts around to the edge of the crowd, nodding at the security guy blocking the other entrance to the backstage area. They were introduced earlier, and he waves Gabe through instantly. Gabe squints against the bright lights of the back hallways, shielding his eyes with his hand until he gets used to it. He needs to get to Pete and find out what's wrong. Pete's going to be pissed at him for worrying like this; he doesn't like to be fussed over. He'll just have to fucking deal with it tonight.

Pete's sitting on the couch in his dressing room, hugging his laptop to his chest. His hat is askew and his t-shirt sleeves are rolled up, his tattoos exposed all the way to his shoulders. His skin is shiny with sweat, which shouldn't be weird--it was hot as fuck on that dancefloor, and Gabe should know--except that the DJ booth was right under an A/C vent and Pete's usually freezing by the end of a set, not sweating. His weird body temperature shit. Pete never sweats like this.

"Gabe."

The sound of his name snaps Gabe out of it and he steps fully into the room, going to Pete's side. "Hey. Are you okay?"

"I feel weird." 

That's nonspecific and unhelpful. "Weird how? Like you drank too much? Your stomach?"

"No." Pete rubs the back of his hand over his eyes. "Just... weird. Hot and kind of... I want to go to the hotel. Can we do that? Can we just, like, get out of here?"

"Yeah. Definitely." Gabe grabs Pete's hoodie from the hook by the door, finds the laptop sleeve and tucks that fancy-ass piece of personal files and insufficient encryption away, digs through pockets until he finds the hotel-room key and takes it for the night. Pete just sits there the whole time, staring down at the floor and rubbing his hands on his thighs. It's definitely not normal and not okay.

"You think maybe we should find a doctor?" Gabe asks gently, shoving the hotel key in his pocket. "Lots of cool, discreet doctors in Vegas, man."

"I don't need a doctor. I just need to lie down, I think. Maybe some water. I'm really hot, Gabe."

"Yeah." Pete's sweating hard enough that his t-shirt is sticking to his back. This is _really_ not okay. But a shouting fight about going to the doctor needs to happen in the relative security of their hotel room, not here. "Okay. Let's go."

**

Pete leans on Gabe all the way back to the room, but pushes him away as soon as the door is closed. "Don't touch me," he says, wrapping his arms around himself. "I feel really weird and I don't think you should get too close."

"I don't think it's contagious. I think it's whatever those kids threw in your face down there."

"You saw that?" Pete backs toward the bed and sits down on the edge of the mattress. "It burned my nose. And my eyes. Fucking... burned."

"You said it was glitter."

"It was sparkly. And I had to say something." Pete shakes his head and lies back on the bed, closing his eyes. "It's still burning, but like, everywhere."

"What does that mean?" Gabe's trying to be calm, in control, not lose his temper, but Pete's telling him to stay away at the same time he's saying shit about _burning everywhere_.

"My skin. And, like, inside. Everywhere. Burning, tingling..." Pete swings his legs up and arranges himself lengthwise on the bed, turning over to bury his face in the pillows.

"I'm calling a doctor."

"No!" Pete turns over again, a sharp, violent flip. 

"Pete, something is obviously wrong."

"I don't want anybody else here. I just want you. You'll take care of me."

"I'll try," Gabe says, trying to bite down on his frustration, "but I don't know anything about this."

"Please."

Gabe shakes his head and turned toward the bathroom. He runs cold water and soaks all of the washcloths, then wrings them out and walks back to the bed. Pete's face is flushed and slick with sweat. He had stripped off his t-shirt and his jeans and now lies sprawled out, spread-eagle on the ugly bedspread. His boxer-briefs are dark with sweat, too, and his hair is curling along his hairline, clinging to his skin.

Gabe sits on the edge of the mattress beside him and lays the first washcloth on Pete's chest. Pete gasps, his hand grabbing for Gabe's. 

"Fuck," he says, half-laughing, and licks his lips. "That's cold."

"That's the idea." Gabe folds the next one and lays it over his throat, then the next over his forehead. "Does that feel better?"

"A little." Drips run down into the hollows of Pete's eyes. Gabe wipes them away with his thumb. "It's better with you here."

"I just went in the other room, baby." 

Pete shakes his head in frustration, blinking at the droplets threatening his eyes again. "I don't want these."

"They're to help with the fever. Hold still."

"It's not a fever."

"You said you were hot. You're sweating all over the place."

"I am, I know, but it's not... it doesn't feel like a fever. It's not that kind of hot. I'm hot _inside_."

Gabe sets his teeth and takes a slow breath before he answers. "I don't know what that means."

Pete groans, or maybe growls, his head falling back against the pillows again. "I need...I _need_."

"Use more words. You need what?"

He doesn't expect Pete to move suddenly, to lunge at him and pull him down. "I need you," Pete mutters, his hands scrambling at Gabe's arms. Sometimes Gabe forgets that Pete is fucking _strong_. And right now he has an edge of frantic strength, like he doesn't even realize that his fingers are digging into Gabe's arms hard enough to bruise.

"I need you," Pete says again, tugging Gabe on top of him. Gabe bites back a groan of surprise, both because Pete's body is so hot he's surprised it isn't glowing and because Pete is hard, his dick curved out against his boxer-briefs and poking against Gabe's stomach. "Please, Gabe. Please."

"Pete." Gabe tries to sit up, pushing at Pete's hands. "Pete, we shouldn't do this."

"I need it. Fuck. I feel better touching you."

"A minute ago you were afraid you were contagious."

"You said I'm not. And I _need_ you, Gabe." Pete's voice breaks and he's looking up at Gabe with wide, dark eyes in a dark-flushed face. Gabe has to shut his eyes tightly if he's going to have any chance of thinking.

"This is some kind of drug. Those kids in the club drugged you."

"You're my boyfriend." 

Gabe opens his eyes at that. They don't--they _use_ that word, but they don't throw it around. It's an after-makeout word, or a morning-after word, one they whisper when they're cuddling and kissing softly and it's just the two of them, safe and alone.

"If I'm drugged, at least it's when you're here. I trust you. I want you. I want you all the fucking time, you _know_ that."

Gabe does know that. The tricky part is figuring out _how_ Pete wants him, where the lines are, what touch or kiss is still too much and which is okay now. He never wants to run over Pete's boundaries. He never wants to push Pete too far or hurt him. That's why they've been going out of the way to go _slow_. 

"What do you want me to do, baby?" He brushes Pete's sweaty hair back off his forehead. "You want me to jerk you off?" That's what they do the most, make out and get their hands all over each other. It's good, satisfying, and Pete doesn't get nervous. It's square in the middle of how Gabe maps their comfort zones.

Pete shakes his head, pushing up against Gabe's hand. "It's not enough."

"Let me try, huh? Try that first."

"Fuck." Pete slams his head back against the bed. "Okay. Yes. Kiss me, and jerk me off, and... and... do it rough, okay? Rough and dry. Tight. Squeeze, kind of."

"I know what you like." He does, he's fucking memorized what Pete likes. He wipes his hand on the bedspread and kisses Pete hard, letting his teeth click against Pete's while he reaches down and pulls Pete's underwear away from his skin. Pete's cock is standing straight out now, hot and velvety under Gabe's palm. He strokes Pete fast, with a little bit of a twist, letting his calluses play over the delicate skin. Pete moans and bites at his mouth, arching up under him. It's never been like this between them, not this edge of aggression and need. They've always been so slow, so careful and gentle. Gabe's made sure of that. Whatever this shit is that those kids threw in Pete's face, it's undoing all of Gabe's work.

"Not enough," Pete gasps, shaking his head. "Not enough, Gabe. I told you."

"I barely started."

"It's not going to work. I need more."

"You want me to go down on you?" They've done that a couple of times. Pete always twists under him, and makes choked little noises low in his throat, fighting not to be loud the whole time. Gabe's told him he can be as loud as he wants, and Pete still keeps holding back. 

Pete exhales and arches up again, trying to kick his underwear the rest of the way off so he can spread his legs wide. "Try it. Try it and we'll see. Fuck. I feel like I'm fucking... dying."

Gabe wipes the sweat off Pete's forehead again and moves down to kneel between his legs. "Don't fucking say that. You're not dying."

"I feel like it."

Gabe stares at Pete's dick, flushed dark and curved up against his stomach now. It's leaving a stain of precome over Pete's bat tattoo, and beads of sweat are tracing down Pete's thighs. It's beautiful, fucking amazing, and it also kind of looks like an angry alien latched on to Pete's groin.

"Don't just stare at me, what the fuck," Pete says. "Do something."

"What if this actually does kill you?"

"Jesus fucking Christ." Pete reaches for Gabe, tangling his fingers in Gabe's hair and pulling at him. It's not particularly effective--the angle's all wrong, and Gabe's hair is too short for a good grip anyway--but Gabe's so surprised it happens at all that he does lean forward, his chin bumping against the head of Pete's dick. Pete is never grabby or aggressive about Gabe going down on him.

"Shit." Pete lets go and slams his fist against the bed. "Shit. Sorry. Just. I _need it_."

"Yeah." Gabe licks his lips and shakes his head, like he can jostle his brain back into place. "Yeah, okay, baby. Just... just relax."

"I can't. I can't fucking relax." Pete sounds frantic, not whiny. "Try, try please."

Gabe ducks his head and licks the length of Pete's cock, tasting the salt and heat of skin and then the sour fluid at the tip. Pete whimpers and punches the bed again, but doesn't speak, and Gabe takes that as a cue to turn his head and lick again, along the side this time.

"Suck," Pete mutters finally, throwing his hands above his head and clutching at the pillows. "Suck and see... see how that... fuck, I need _more_ , I don't even know, sorry, sorry."

Gabe shakes his head at the apology and takes Pete in his mouth, sucking at him, pressing his tongue to the head and thinking he can feel Pete's pulse in it, his heart beating frantically as magic Viagra not-glitter races through his veins and sets him on fire. Gabe's hands are settled on Pete's thighs now, rubbing erratically, trying to keep them both grounded. From the way Pete's moaning, the sounds broken up by little sobs of frustration, it's not working for him.

"Not right, fuck, it's not... Fuck, fuck."

Gabe takes him deeper, trying to relax his jaw and open his throat. He'll let Pete have his way with him, he doesn't fucking care, he just wants this to _stop_ , the frantic noises and the desperation in every line of Pete's body, the heat rising off his skin. It's getting worse, not better, with everything Gabe's trying to do, and that scares the fuck out of him.

"Gabe," Pete gasps, his fingers tangling in Gabe's hair and pulling hard. "Gabe, stop, stop, it's not working."

Gabe pulls off and wipes his mouth on Pete's thigh. "You need a doctor, Pete."

"No." Pete lets go, dragging his hand up his torso and leaving dark red nail marks in its wake. "No, no doctors."

"Querido. You're not--"

"Why do you call me that?" Pete twists on the bed, under Gabe's body, his legs sticking to Gabe's chest with sweat. "I don't get it. What does cheese have to do with anything?"

"I didn't say anything about cheese, baby."

"Querido. Little cheese."

Gabe wants to laugh, but he thinks it would come out as a sob. He's so fucking scared he isn't sure he remembers how to laugh at all. "That's queso." 

"Whatever. Whatever. Oh, fuck." Pete's hand slides between his legs, fingers scratching at his thighs. "I need... I _need_ it, Gabe, please."

"What? What do you need, Pete? I don't understand."

Pete hisses sharply, his free hand coming up to rake through his hair. "Fuck me."

Gabe pulls back, grabbing for the edge of the mattress to steady himself. "We're not doing that yet."

"I _need_ it."

"We're not ready for that. You're not ready for it. We agreed we're taking it slow, for really good reasons."

"Desperate times, desperate fucking measures, _fuck_ me." Pete scratches his thigh again, leaving sharp red lines against the delicate skin, and Gabe bites down hard on his tongue to keep from screaming at him to leave himself alone. "I need it. I need you in me, Gabe, I swear, I need it or I'm going to come the fuck apart, I'm going to explode."

"I am not going to hurt you, Pete."

"I _am_ hurting! I'm fucking burning up. And I know, I know you can fix it, if you just..." Pete's hips arch up off the bed and he presses two fingers against his opening, barely penetrating. He's dry and not at all ready and this time Gabe doesn't stop himself from lunging forward to grab Pete's wrist.

"Stop it."

"You do it, then. Get inside me. Work me open. _Fuck me_."

Gabe lets go of Pete's wrist and pulls back, rubbing roughly at his face. "Let me think."

Pete moans, the sound so low and rough and vicious that Gabe can't believe it's coming from Pete's throat. It sounds more like a werewolf in a shitty movie. Pete rolls over onto his knees, kicking the blankets away, and lowers himself on his forearms, his head against the mattress and his ass high in the air. "Gabe. Gabe, please, now."

"I don't know if you're competent to consent right now, Pete."

Pete groans and slams his forehead against the bed. "Gabe, please, I'm begging you, just... just put it in me."

"Yeah, that's really not turning me on, it's freaking me the fuck out. This isn't you."

"It is me. It is. I really, really, really want you to fuck me."

Gabe wants to cry. "You wouldn't be saying that if you weren't _drugged_!"

"I would! Just, like... three months from now. This is a jump-start. A power-up. It's... it's letting us skip ahead a few spaces, that's all, I swear."

Gabe watches him for a minute, the way he's swaying back and forth on his knees and his hand is creeping back to jerk at his dick. His grip is tight and rough and has to be painful, but the dark-flushed, rock-hard length of his erection doesn't go down at all. 

"I wish I could make you do a drunk walk or something. I just... I need to know you're in control enough to..."

"Barack Obama is President. Today is a Wednesday. Your birthday is October 11."

"What's seven times nine?"

"I don't fucking know that when I'm sober. Gabe, _please_." Pete's voice breaks, that time, and he sounds so helpless and in pain that Gabe can't stand it anymore. Fuck. He's probably going to go to hell for this, and he's definitely going to fuck over their relationship, but he can't stand making Pete suffer any more.

"I need a condom." It's a fancy hotel in fucking Vegas. If it's anything like all the others he's stayed in here, there's a gift basket with condoms, lube, and all kinds of other goodies somewhere in the room. He finds it on the table by the window while Pete jerks himself and moans like he's being ripped apart by wolves. How the fuck Gabe is supposed to get hard with that going on, he has no idea. Sheer force of will and getting his hands on Pete's ass, maybe.

This isn't how he wanted their first time to be. He had a whole plan for moving them through all different kinds of sex, touching Pete everywhere, letting him get used to how good his body can feel, letting him _revel_ in it, while Gabe got to revel in watching Pete feel like that and knowing that _he_ was the reason. They would get around to penetration eventually, but it would be slow and gentle and romantic with... with candles, and massage oil, and kissing, so much kissing. Soft music. Laughing together and cuddling each other and...

"Gabe!" 

"I'm here, baby." Gabe blinks hard against the heat behind his eyes and grabs the condoms and lube from the basket. "I'm coming."

Pete wails when Gabe settles his hands on his hips and adjusts his position on the bed. It's a choked-off, inadvertent cry, nothing but raw need, and it goes through Gabe's heart like a fist. "Okay," he says, letting to again to slick his fingers. "Okay, baby. Querido. I've got you. I'm going to open you up. Fill you up. Make you feel better, I promise, make this... I'm gonna make this stop."

He has no idea if fucking Pete will make this stop. Pete seems to think it will. Gabe devoutly hopes he's right, because if this makes things _worse_ , he doesn't know what he's going to do. 

The noises Pete makes when Gabe works his fingers inside him are better, at least. Hungry and eager instead of so broken. His body relaxes almost instantly, not resisting the intrusion at all, and that makes Gabe feel closer to okay about this than anything else has.

"Yeah," Pete moans, and Gabe's pulse jumps. He's only heard Pete sound that turned on when Gabe's spent an hour warming him up, making out and touching and turning the dial up a fraction at a time. Pete sounds like that when he's finally let go of all his fears and hiding places and is letting himself go, sinking fully into his body and getting lost under the sensations moving through it. Gabe moves his fingers slowly and steadily, getting them deeper, and Pete moans again. "Yes. Yes, yes, like that. God, Gabe, like that. Don't stop."

"I love you." Gabe presses a kiss to the base of Pete's spine, tasting the salt of his sweat. "I love you so much."

"Love you. I wouldn't want anybody else to do this, Gabe. Want it to be with you. Only you. Forever." 

Gabe takes a shaky breath and moves his hand, pressing a third finger inside. Pete wails again, muffling the sound against the mattress, and Gabe's dick is finally joining the party. "Keep talking, baby. Talk to me, please."

Pete's voice is hoarse and rough, but he keeps up a steady stream of words, asking Gabe for more, telling him how much he wants him, how good he feels, how good he's _going_ to feel when he has Gabe buried deep inside him. "I want you so much," he says, just before Gabe pulls his hand away to put the condom on. "No, don't stop, don't stop, I need you, Gabe!"

"I'm right here." Gabe gets the condom on and slicked and rests one hand on Pete's hip while he guides himself against Pete with the other. "Breathe for me, okay? Breathe and relax."

Pete's already relaxed, ready and open for Gabe, his knees spread wide apart. Gabe pushes against him slowly, forcing himself to follow his own instructions and take slow, deep breaths. Passing out and falling on Pete's back would be bad right now. Besides the more obvious things, he would miss the sound Pete makes when Gabe moves inside him.

"Yes," Pete says, his hands scrambling against the mattress. "Yes, yes, please, oh god, please, Gabe. Don't stop. Don't stop."

"I'm not." Gabe rocks his hips slowly, settling as deep inside Pete as he can, then thrusts. Pete pushes back against him, crying out softly, and Gabe grips his thighs tightly, guiding Pete where he wants him as he finds the rhythm they both need. 

"Gabe," Pete gasps. "Gabe, Gabe." 

Gabe can't answer. He can't breathe. All he can do is keep moving, as steadily as he can, deep and hard inside Pete. Inside him. He thought... he thought it would take ages for them to get to this, and he didn't think it would be like this, not at all. But this is where they are, this is what it is, and if he closes his eyes and just lets himself listen, and feel...

"Touch me." Pete's voice is a hoarse, helpless moan. Gabe's hips jerk hard, and he buries himself deeper, because _that_ , that is exactly how he imagined it, how he wanted it. For Pete to sound just like that, like he wants Gabe so much he's lost.

"Does it... does it feel good?" Gabe asks, kissing between Pete's shoulder blades. The skin is slick with sweat and so hot he's half-surprised it's not steaming. "Does it feel good, baby?"

"So good. So good. Touch me, please, please, I want you."

Gabe reaches around Pete's hip and wraps his hand around his cock. It's still rock-hard and hot, and Gabe rubs his palm over it slowly, feeling Pete shudder beneath him, his breath hitching. "Like this?"

"Tighter. Faster. I need... I need to come, Gabe, I need it, 'm gonna fucking die if you don't..."

"Shh." Gabe kisses the back of his neck, then bites gently. Pete loves that on his neck, small bites to shock him back into his head when pleasure gets too intense. It works now, too, despite whatever chemical fever is racing through him; Pete gasps and his cock pulses as Gabe strokes, spilling all over his hand and Pete's stomach.

"Yeah. Yeah. Oh, god." Pete's head drops, baring his neck. His arms are shaking with the strain of holding himself up. "Oh, god, Gabe. Yes. Don't... don't stop."

"You're perfect. So perfect, Pete, you feel so good." Gabe steadies himself and thrusts deeper, faster, giving up his earlier rhythm for animal rutting that he knows he'll be ashamed of ten minutes from now. Pete's still moaning like he's being torn apart in a good way, his fingers flexing at the sheets and his mouth open, sweat and spit dripping to the mattress from his lip and his face.

"I love you," Pete moans, and Gabe's fingers tighten on his hips, pulling him back against Gabe roughly. God. He can't stop himself, he can't even slow down, all he can do is bury himself deeper again, and again, and on the third final, desperate thrust, he comes.

Pete pulls away from him and falls flat to the mattress, rubbing his face blindly against the sheets to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Gabe stares at him as he peels the condom off on autopilot, his hands moving while his eyes stare at the slick smear of sweat and lube on Pete's inner thighs, just visible with how he's lying splayed open on the bed.

Pete doesn't look up, even when Gabe gets off the bed to throw the condom away and wipe himself clean in the bathroom. Gabe leaves the door open so he can hear him, while he washes his hands and his face and stares at himself in the mirror, wondering what the fuck he's supposed to say after that, what he's supposed to do, what he'll do if Pete isn't _better_ after that. If he's still burning up with fever and need.

"Gabe?" Pete's voice is soft and unsure. "Gabe?"

"Yeah, baby. I'm right here."

"I'm... I'm really cold."

Gabe sags forward, his head thumping dully against the mirror. "Oh." Thank fuck. "Get under the blankets, okay?"

"What are you doing?"

Wiping his fucking eyes. "I'm just washing up. I'll be right there. I promise."

When he comes back to the bed, Pete is shivering under the comforter. Gabe touches Pete's forehead carefully; his skin is cool, with the sweat going cold and clammy in the air conditioning. "You feel better? Not so..."

"Not horny anymore," Pete mumbles. His eyes are closed, his face slack with exhaustion. Gabe climbs into bed next to him and pulls him close, pressing careful kisses to his forehead and his hair. "'m gonna fall asleep."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's okay."

"You don't want to talk about it?"

"In the morning, Pete." Gabe closes his eyes and holds Pete close, feeling their hearts beating together. "We'll talk about it in the morning."

**

Gabe wakes up with Pete staring at him from two inches away. "Pete?"

"Good morning."

"Fuck." Gabe sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes and squinting at the clock. "Fuck, it's early."

"It's nine o'clock."

"That's early."

"In New York, it's eleven."

"So?"

Pete laughs a little, pressing his mouth against his pillow. "Gabe."

"I have to pee before we talk about it."

"Okay."

"And brush my teeth."

"Okay."

Gabe throws the covers back and retreats to the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror again. He doesn't look any different. Still the same guy. Now with bed-head and crusty shit around his eyes. He can do this.

When he comes back to bed this time, Pete is sitting up, hugging the pillow to his chest. "Thanks for taking care of me last night," Pete says, staring just past him at something invisible on the wall.

"Pete. Don't do this. Don't make it weird."

"It _was_ weird."

"I love you. Taking care of each other is part of being in love. You know that."

"I know. I know. I love that you... that you want to take care of me." Pete takes a slow breath. "But that was still weird, and I know it was..." He hesitates. "Not good for you."

"You mean the sex? The sex was good."

"Don't play dumb. Please. Not now."

Gabe has to stop and make himself breathe. Pete doesn't ask for things like that, all small and lost. Helpless. If he's asking like that, it means something. 

"Okay," Gabe says finally. "Yeah, it was weird for me. It wasn't how I wanted our first time to be, at all."

"How did you want it to be?"

Gabe drags his fingers through his hair. "Romantic. Candles, and music, and... and kissing. Maybe even a fancy dinner, or something. Something _special_ , making it special, because you're special to me."

Pete stares at him wide-eyed over the edge of the pillow. "This was kind of special. I mean. You took care of me in really fucked-up circumstances. Special circumstances."

Gabe chokes on his laughter and shakes his head. "Not how I wanted it."

"The next time can be like that."

Gabe shakes his head again and sits down on the edge of the dresser. "I wanted the _first_ time to be special, Pete."

"It'll be our first time at my house. Or your house. Or it'll be our first time in the afternoon, or our first time outside of Las Vegas, or the first time I'm not totally losing my shit the whole time. It'll be a first time. It'll be special."

Gabe looks up at him. Pete's face is open, vulnerable. There's nothing but truth there. "You think so?"

"Don't make me be corny, dude, but... fuck it." Pete shrugs. "It'll always be special if it's you and me."

Gabe feels heat sting behind his eyes and blinks hard before it can turn into tears. "I love you, Pete."

Pete nods and lets the pillow slip from his arms, holding his hands out to Gabe. "I'm your quesadilla."

Gabe crosses back to the bed, trying his best to glare at Pete. "Please tell me this isn't going to be a thing."

"I don't want to lie to you, queso grande."

Gabe laughs and lets Pete pull him down. "I love you."

Pete places one hand over Gabe's heart and kisses him, soft and slow. "I love you too."


End file.
